Sunday 20 July 2025
Basilica della Santissma Annunziata, Florence
This was my first foreign Mass, so I arrived early. A city center service in the middle of Florence. Very different to what I’m used to back home.
There was no air in the church, which brought on a sweat. I also didn’t see any signs of a mass. Was there some sort of side chapel perhaps? I thought I’d found it before realising I’d joined the line for confession. I said good morning to someone before excusing myself, looking like someone who needed to confess something in complete isolation and now didn’t fancy it.
I went to the front door where two monks were talking.
“Dove mass alla otto?” I said, hoping this sounded close enough to “Is mass at 8am?”.
“8.30am” replied one of them, in perfect English.
So I waited. I went outside and sat on the steps in the piazza, where there was shade and a slight breeze.
I watched a priest in full cassock walk across the square, stopping halfway where a woman wearing bright pink and bright orange stopped him, as stark a contrast you could get from a cassock.
They seemed to know each other and talked animatedly for the 20 minutes I was there. Perhaps he was the priest from the earlier service. An older woman, in white, joined them briefly for a blessing before going on her way.
An Asian couple was having their picture taken for 15 minutes by an enthusiastic young photographer who had no qualms about calling out instructions that echoed across the square.
The three African men were sleeping rough on the far side of the piazza. One, sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, another with his back to the wall, and a third still sleeping.
I prayed for forgiveness.
For the feelings of animosity I felt towards people posing for their elaborate social media photos.
For wanting to be one of the people talking to the priest.
For not doing anything to help the three men sleeping rough.
Inside the church the pews were solid and uncomfortable. I didn’t pick up a service sheet but the man in front was happy for me to have his.
The congregation was eclectic.
Three nuns in beige habits arrived and sat a few rows ahead of me.
A Franciscan monk suddenly got up to allow the man behind him, who I’d seen sitting on the steps like me in the square, to sit next to him, as if he’d been expecting him. Perhaps his protege or student.
There was a good-looking middle-aged woman, carrying her moto helmet in the colours of the Italian flag.
A fidgety man in front.
The readings were read by the monk and one of the nuns.
The collection was made by another of the monks, one I’d seen talking at the doorway, who seemed disinterested.
The priest was short with fuzzy hair and thick glasses. He seemed delighted to see us all.
My Italian doesn’t reach the levels of liturgy, or what the priest was saying, but it seemed off the cuff. He was genial and friendly, glad to see us, and enthusiastic about his and our faith.
I followed as best I could. I read from the sheet in Italian. I recognised the various waypoints — the prayers, the creeds, and Allelulias. I was still moved, just as I am at home.
Tourist announcement before the service. I thought of the line “stealing from churches” but still haven’t found where I got that from.
We’re all stealing from Florence.
I walked past one of the homeless men begging for change on the way out, and there were more people taking photos in the square after the service.